The woman on the bus

It was a long, dusty bus ride between two forgotten towns. A tall, very black woman sat opposite me. As the bus jiggled along the pot-holed road, her head swayed from side to side but her face was as impassive as the masks that the traders had tried to sell us the day before. The sun glinted off the planes of her face and I fell in love with her for her impassive dignity.
The bus lurched round a corner and a suitcase slid out of the overcrowded, overhead rack and landed on the floor of the bus. The very black woman laughed, or, more then laughed, cackled and I fell in love with her again for her earthy humour and life.